The Other Holmes
by TheRiverRunsRed
Summary: It appeared like a storm; someone with wits to match Sherlock's and a mouth to boot. Sherlock finally meets his match in a certain awkward, saucy relative named Spencer. But what does Watson think of Spencer? And how will Spencer's sudden appearance change their lives?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Breaking up a family feud isn't exactly the easiest of enterprises, specifically if the intermediate suffers from chronic depression at the notion that all of the female race has decided to deny him the simplest pleasures. More importantly, if said family includes Sherlock Holmes.

"UNBELIEVABLE."

John Watson let loose an exasperated huff, his skull pulsing and pealing from the previous night's drinks. He seized his head with his hands in a futile attempt to repress the monstrous spinning. "Please, Sherlock, couldn't we deal with this another time?"

"That insolent child thinks the world revolves around its foolish head."

Again, his endeavors were neglected. "Sherlock, if you're going to keep complaining, could you at least fix me a glass of water?"

"Honestly, this family would have worked just fine with just myself and Mycroft, but then mother had to go and have Spencer_._"

_Apparently not._ John staggered into the kitchen, the combination of sudden light and the rumbling of Sherlock's shouts swirling a deadly brew. The surge of iced water dribbling down his scorched throat served as an oasis of sanity in a desert of _Sherlock._

"What am I to do with that imp? I leave it alone for one moment and it somehow winds up arrested. I've bailed it out time and time again. I refuse to give any assistance for now on. Spencer is Mycroft's dilemma now..."

When Watson had his fill, he popped two aspirins and turned to address Sherlock looming by the window and muttering incoherent obscenities. "Must you address your sibling as an 'it'? He is your own flesh and blood, after all."

Sherlock snorted, a most derisive and vain of sounds. "Flesh and blood, please. We are no more related than fire to ice and I refuse to acknowledge any more than the fact that we were raised under the same roof; I still maintain Spencer was adopted."

"Sherlock!" Watson's expression slipped into a frown, his forehead crinkled, and his brow pulled together in a disappointed furrow. With all the reluctance and sheepishness of a young boy caught in the caught, Sherlock turned to regard him. "They are still family, and in the future I expect you to treat them as such. Are you so inhumane that you can't even—"

Sherlock suspended his probable lecture with a flat growl. "John." His sharp eyes narrowed behind John at something in the door-someone in the door. Immediately, the doctor's gaze was on his gun sitting prettily on the coffee table, glittering with wicked menace in the afternoon sun. Then steadily, the doctor turned with eyes prepared to recognize anyone from Mrs. Hudson to Irene Adler or Jim Moriarty. His weight shifted to his left foot in the event his gun was required to join the conversation.

"Stranger danger," announced Sherlock, tinted by sarcasm.

To Watson, a stranger had never looked more attractive. At first glance there was nothing unusual about the woman, but he did not stand within several feet of her. When she glanced up at a noise from Sherlock and her smoldering gaze swept the room... In that moment he could see more of her. The foreigner's ebony-black hair was short and fell in glorious rings about her shoulders and chest; her bangs whispered against her brows, crooked provocatively at the detective across the room. They arched delicately over beautiful feline eyes rimmed with lashes so soft, so utterly black as to appear soot. The deep forest of her eyes, cool and impersonal, gave no hint as to her thoughts.

Her body was a string of delicately wired muscles molded to an ethereal bone structure. High cheekbones, Watson noticed. Just like Sherlock.

Her nose was quite small, a little snubbed to be honest, but a tiny bump on the bridge attested to a previous injury. He wondered what had become of the person who had done it. Nothing good, that was for sure. Her mouth was turned down and she appeared to be deep in thought. Her lips were full and sensuous. Shifting in her spot, she lifted her smooth chin and delicately licked her lips - a movement that did not go unnoticed by the doctor.

She appeared to reach a decision and, straightening, she fastened an unearthly grip on her luggage and huffed. Slender as a willow, she reached for her cloak and threw it about her narrow shoulders, bringing her surprisingly generous breasts into sharp relief.

Seeing the interest she engendered brought a derisory sneer to her lips and, instantly, transformed her into something intensely frightening - her eyes seemed to shine with a blood red light before she fixed her iced orbs on Sherlock and made her way to the center of the room.

Her heels pressed into the plush rug smoothly, lithely, never straying from the safety of the shadows. She circumvented the room, alert and prowling. She moved with the dexterity of a fox, the poise of a jaguar, and all the while her hips swung a harmonious symphony. What she possessed, you had to be born with it; you could practice for eternity with a hired professional and still not be capable of walking like she did. Either you had it or you didn't; and this woman, she had it. And she was headed straight for Sherlock.

Watson felt a twinge of jealousy. Sherlock was acquainted with an actual woman? Other than Irene Adler, he had known no such connection. Well, there was Molly but he doubted Sherlock counted her as a lady more than a common work tool with breasts and mouth far too small.

"It's been a while..." She finally spoke, her voice much more deep and hauntingly musical than expected.

Sherlock replied with a curt nod, jaws clenched in thick, evident tension. "Indeed it has...Spencer..."

Watson was flung from his dream like a rag doll. He stared oddly between the two, his mind bustling to connect the clues as he had so often seen Sherlock.

"How was France?"

"Crowded. And _dreadfully _cold. So nothing new."

The lull in the conversation sent a ringing in everyone's ears.

"You look like you have something to say, John." Sherlock's statement seemed more like a plea to dissipate the silence than an innocent observation.

It took him a minute to fathom his thoughts into coherent sentences. "I-er-what I mean to say is...This entire time, I was under the impression that you and 'Spencer' were related."

"We are," he responded with an eloquent quirk of his brow.

"But...well for some reason I imagined Spencer to be your _brother_." He glanced at the ravenous beauty from the corner of his eye, but she seemed unaffected.

"What an asinine assumption. Clearly, Spencer is a unisex name."

"I just assumed-"

"Yes, that she was my brother, I gathered as much. You should never assume, John, terrible habit; terrible, terrible habit. Only makes you seem thick." He tapped his head to clarify the shot at Watson's intelligence.

"If we could change topics to the current issue..." interrupted Spencer, eyes ablaze with impatience. "I need a place to lie low for a few months."

Suddenly it was as if Watson hadn't existed as the arguments ensued between brother and sister.

"And I was your first choice? How lovely, I didn't think I came across as hospitable."

"You're not."

"And what of Mycroft?"

"Wouldn't take me."

"You could've boarded up at a hotel."

"Do you really think them that stupid? They'd sniff it out in an instant."

"I doubt staying with family is a much smarter prospect."

"They don't know that we share blood."

"No, but when a crucial parolee goes missing, who do you think they will turn to, to find her?"

"I didn't have a choice!"

"Oh, posh, everyone has a choice. Yours were simply restricted, obviously."

"Would you stop acting so senile?"

"Senile? _Senile? _Spencer, I can tell everything about you from just one look. What you ate for breakfast, when and who you spoke to on your way here, what you said, how you got here, how long it took you, how many lovers you've had..."

"THAT'S ENOUGH."

"Do not raise your voice at me, young lady, don't even dare. If you feel compelled to tell me that I am senile-that all of that is a spark of insanity rather than ingenious work-then get out of my house and find reception elsewhere because you will not be welcomed in this flat. You are hardly welcomed as it is, and it is only the fact that we share DNA that is keeping me from sending you out that door. Do I make myself clear?"

She blinked rapidly, her eyes bristling with what looked like tears. Watson caught his breath in his throat as a feeling of uneasiness washed over him. She swallowed, attempting to regain what straggling dignity she had. "Yes, brother."

He seemed to growl before turning away, glaring heatedly at the busy streets of London.

"Excuse me then..." She began to lean away when John sprang forward to catch her shoulder, which rested a solid three to four inches below his. Short, he noted.

"H-hang on!" John would admit; his reluctance was partly from his confusion at the matter, partly from his desire seeping from the wrong organs in his body that probably should not have been acting up in the situation. He immediately withdrew his hand from direct contact. "Sherlock...she's your sister."

He rolled his eyes and scoffed. "Now your just getting redundant, boring! I'm going for a smoke."

The door slammed behind him, causing Watson to wince at the unanticipated swiftness of his actions. On the other hand, he found himself suddenly alone with the mysterious and tearful Spencer Holmes...


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I wasn't sure how to make my little breaks when time ****passes without the reader knowing what occurred during that time... (If I suck royal balls at explaining, you'll see when you get there.) I can't put a bunch of space there because the Doc Manager will delete it, so anytime you see _~*TheRiverRunsRed*~_ it means a break in time. Thank you for bearing with my utter failure, and thank you for reading. If you have any tips or ideas for how to make these transitions in time smoother, they would be much appreciated!  
~TheRiverRunsRed**

**Chapter Two**

The rigid silence was amplified by Spencer's muffled whimpers and sniveling. Watson wriggled uncomfortably in the presence of a woman's tears.

"Please don't worry about Sherlock. You're welcome to stay here."

She whisked a spiteful glare at him, so fleeting that he nearly missed it, but the meaning behind it became very clear: Fuck off. Even the shadows seemed to wither away, as if they would become swept in by her exquisite ferocity. Suddenly she was up, moving to the door like a storm so that Watson barely near time to retaliate.

"You can't leave!" He cast his body between Spencer and the door. His heart faltered when her cool breath blew across his neck and her warm breasts brushed against his stomach. Her temperament so offset her stature that it was easy to forget how petite she was.

He felt her chest lift as he inhaled sharply. She was quick to slither back to widen the proximity between them. "And why not?" Her voice cracked less than halfway through the sentence, a definite frailer melody than before.

"Because Sherlock is being ridiculous. You've grown up with him; you should understand that this is merely one of his tantrums that he throws to gain attention."

Her shoulders shrugged, and her posture relaxed fractionally. He did not miss the look of fleeting deference that dissolved her abrasive shell, and immersed her in a sheath of soft charm. No, that was not right. It did not envelop her like a disguise, it severed her phlegmatic façade, mangled her years of indifference and detachment.

"No." She glazed over, renewed purpose springing to life on her fresh face. "I don't."

To say Watson was disappointed and even a bit frustrated was an understatement. "Oh," was all he said. Having cemented her verdict with a hand twisting the doorknob, she paused only to offer him a look of remorse before slipping through the small crack.

_Thank you, John._

For all of his intellect and knowledge, it took John longer than it should have for him to realize she had said it aloud and that he had not misheard. A small, triumphant smirk graced his features. Baby steps, he reminded himself. He was dealing with the Holmes family, after all.

He sighed and moved to the opposite end of the room, making no move as to give chase. His last attachment had ended on a sour note as he had been angrily dumped the previous night. He could not help it, though. Pretty faces were like a drug to him.

Watson watched Spencer's alluring figure disappear into a cab, and her face briefly gleamed through the taxi's window. As she stared he lifted a hand and waved, slowly. If this was to be the last time he would see the lovely Miss Holmes... He could not afford to think like that now.

The burst of adrenaline pulsing through him led to a hasty departure from the window and a crack of the knuckles as he flipped open his laptop and quickly scrape together a new blog entry: _'The Sister of Sherlock: A Mystery Too Great for Her Brother'_.

**_~*TheRiverRunsRed*~_**

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS."

All John's hopes of relieving his stress with a shower followed by a cup of tea by the window dissolved when Sherlock burst through the door, rattling with groceries and depositing them hastily in the kitchen. Even without context, John knew exactly what he was referring to. He inhaled deeply, and counted.

_One, two, three, four..._

"It's just a blog, Sherlock..."

"_A Mystery Too Great for Her Brother? _How dare you, no mystery is too great for me. Have I ever met a case I couldn't solve?"

_...five, six, seven..._

"Yes," John answered cooly, "and her name is Spencer Holmes."

The detective froze, momentarily speechless, but being a Holmes, that did not last long. "What are you talking about?"

_...eight, nine, ten._

"Your sister, the case you can't solve."

"What nonsense are you spouting now? On what grounds do you claim this?"

Watson leveled him with his regard. "Help her."

"What?"

"Help. Spencer."

Sherlock scowled. "I've seen how you look at her, John, so don't think I am out of line when I say you're thinking with the wrong head. Get a hold of yourself."

"Oh, shut up. If you really want to prove there's no mystery you can't solve, then help your sister. She needs you; you and Mycroft are all she has left."

"Don't act like you know her."

"God damn it, Sherlock, help-are those groceries?"

The plastic bags on the kitchen floor caught his attention. The prospect of actual food in the house was...odd...

"Ah, yes, I went shopping after my smoke. I needed to distract myself for a while and a menial task like groceries seemed perfect."

"You never go shopping."

"Well I do when I'm frustrated!"

Sherlock noticed the shift in the air; he heard the sound John made, so he turned towards his partner. "Are you laughing at me?"

"Because you're so predictable. You went shopping because you plan on finding Spencer and inviting her to stay."

"And why on Earth would I do that?"

"You feel genuine concern for another human being." Watson made certain to stress his words, still smiling.

"Absurd..." The break in the conversation signaled Watson's infallibility. Sherlock seemed to shake himself as he switched topics. "I'm going to draw a bath; my timing was barely off and the rain managed to catch me on my way here."

With a start, John glanced at the window. He had not noticed the intense downpour until now, not that it came as a surprise. London and rain seemed to cling to each other like death.

"Answer the door, John."

"What?" _Knock, knock. "_Damn it, how does he do that?" he muttered below his breath.

John pranced to the door, grinning cheekily at one of his few victories over the great Mr. Holmes. He unlocked the door with a customary how-may-I-help-you before his eyes travelled down. And he caught a flash of mossy eyes. And a silvery voice, now broken by chattering teeth, stuttered:

"D-Dr. Watson."

Despite her drenched state-shivering and dribbling with rain-and her lips stained blue that experienced difficulty wrapping his name around her tongue, she looked utterly delectable in her misery. He found himself amused and distracted by the way her clothes clung to her body, and the way she attempted to cache her more intimate parts by hugging herself. Though honestly, her arms wrapped about her bosom only caused it to enlarge and focus his attention intently on it.

She cleared her throat and forced his eyes back up to hers. "I'm b-back."

"Mm." Honestly, Watson was not sure how to respond. Part of him believed he was dreaming, and if he was dreaming he did not wish to wake.

"It's r-raining..." Her eyes darted everywhere but at him.

"Quite right," John blurted as he snapped from his daze. Images of her swirled in his head, completely inappropriate and completely enticing.

"Are y-you going to let m-me i-in?"

"Ah, yes." He stepped aside awkwardly. "Please, come in."

She smelled of apples, and John figured the scent matched her: tart and bitter with a splash of something sweet, something endearing. Her arms trembled under the strain of her bags and her current frailty.

"Did you put the groceries away ye-oh." Sherlock halted, wrapped in nothing but a towel, and took in his soaking sister suspiciously. A smug smirk tugged at his lips. "Back already, Spencer? I figured it wouldn't take long."

"S-shut up," she tried to hiss. She grew faint when the breath left her body, but John's strong arms gripping hers brought her back from the brink of darkness.

"She's too exhausted for this," remarked John as he noticed her drooping lids. "Give it a break for today."

"Fine. Help her into the bath. And for the record," Sherlock added when John guided her in the right direction, "I didn't buy food for her. I don't care what happens to her; that falls into Mycroft's division."

Watson hurried her into the restroom to block any more of his companion's comments. He studied her worriedly, hoping the cold hadn't affected her or her health too greatly. He rested her against the wall, her head lolling to one side, and ran the hot water. He permitted one last, cautious glance before he took a step towards the door. A shaking hand clutching the back of his shirt made him freeze.

"Spencer?" he whispered charily, and peeked over his shoulder. Her striking eyes beheld him foggily through languid lashes. It fostered a reaction in him, both physical and emotional, that was impossible to ignore.

"-lp," she muttered.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that?" He leaned closer to distinguish her words.

"Help," she murmured, "can't...move..."

He sucked in a sharp breath as her intentions became clear. "Spencer..." This time, his tone held a warning note, a firm admonition of what she was asking. She never wavered, even as her violent quakes stirred a coughing fit.

He braced himself before placing his hands on her shoulders and pushing down her jacket, revealing strong shoulders and a graceful neck. Refusing to let his mind stray, he moved his thoughts from her slippery skin that beckoned him subtly. However, no amount of his willpower could prevent his composure from lapsing, and he found himself fascinated with her sleek body as he unbuttoned her jeans and slid them from her muscled legs. He hesitated then, finding her in nothing but a tank top and her undergarments. Having been a doctor in the military, he had seen naked bodies many times, though they were usually male, and would have no issue disrobing Spencer. He briefly raised his head to look at her for any signs of reluctance.

She was staring with a risqué smolder; her cheeks lightly tinged with pink and her lips parted sensually. Her skin trembled under his touch, and he grew increasingly flustered with each article of clothing that was removed. He could not bring himself to remove her small clothes, and keeping his eyes averted like a gentleman, he lifted her smoothly and set her in the tub with a towel to prop her head. She moaned when he left her nearly all the way submersed in the steaming water. In seeing her with eyes closed and a mixture of pain and relief, his breathing hastened.

_Don't do anything stupid, _he told himself, and left in a flurry.

**_~*TheRiverRunsRed*~_**

An hour had passed, and it was well into the early hours of the dawn. Between continuing his blog, the drone of the crackling fireplace, and listening for her soft splashes as a confirmation that Spencer hadn't drowned, John began drifting in and out of consciousness.

"Dr. Watson."

He jerked into reality at the sound of her voice. She stood, in all her enigmatic glory, covered in nothing but a towel. Honestly, what was with the Holmes and only wearing towels? Spencer grimaced, most likely to disguise the flames creeping onto her cheeks. Her skin, although pale, harbored a much healthier glow. She could stand without assistance, so he deflated a bit, considering a small part of him hoped she wouldn't recover so easily and she would call for him to carry her off to bed.

"Please, call me John."

"_Dr. Watson_," she repeated with persistence. "Where am I to stay?"

He shifted to stand, but when she shook her head and gestured for him to remain seated, he settled lazily into the chair. "You will stay in my room, upstairs. I'll sleep here on the couch," he informed her.

She nodded thoughtfully and bunched the towel closer bashfully. "I could always make my brother-"

"Nonsense, it's not an issue. Besides, I'd rather not suffer another fit from His Royal Highness."

Spencer's sweet mouth contorted into a wry smile. "True. Goodnight then, Dr. Watson."

"Sweet dreams, Spencer."


End file.
